


On The Record

by crown_of_weeds



Series: My Boys Build Coffins [3]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-20
Updated: 2013-06-20
Packaged: 2017-12-15 13:37:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,202
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/850148
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crown_of_weeds/pseuds/crown_of_weeds
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There are moments, now, when the sheriff looks at his son, and he thinks. And he doesn’t think <em>werewolves</em> and he doesn’t think <em>witches</em> and he doesn’t think about how everything makes so much more sense now, and how bizarre is that. He thinks <em>he’s killed someone</em>.</p><p>And he thinks <em>this should be more surprising</em>.</p><p> </p><p>(Sheriff POV companion to Off The Record.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	On The Record

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks, again, to Narceus--for beta, and for remembering, long after I had forgotten, that this fic still existed and maybe wanted to see the light of day.
> 
> Canon has marched on, and with this final installment, we draw this 'verse to a close.

**LATER**  
There are moments, now, when the sheriff looks at his son, and he thinks. And he doesn’t think _werewolves_ and he doesn’t think _witches_ and he doesn’t think about how everything makes so much more sense now, and how bizarre is that. He thinks _he’s killed someone_.

And he thinks _this should be more surprising_.

 

 

 

 **BEFORE**  
The Lahey kid has been hanging around his house for about a month now, and subtlety is not his son’s strong suit. 

(“You aren’t gay,” the sheriff remembers, and while he still maintains that Stiles’ indignant “I could be,” was entirely about distracting him enough to get out of trouble, certain facts appear to have shifted.)

They should probably talk about it. They should probably talk about a lot of things.

 

 

 

 **NOW**  
He pulls up and parks besides the Jeep, and there are voices coming from the back yard. His chest constricts with something _wrong_ , and he starts around the side of the house. He and Stiles have a deal, where they both pretend that everything is fine and that Stiles is a good, honest kid and that lacrosse practices are just exceptionally violent from the bench and that Stiles will let him know if he needs help with anything, and they get through dinner. It’s a good deal. He doesn’t want to break it. 

He just needs to check.

He comes around the corner of the house, and Stiles is pointing a gun at a woman on her knees with Lahey holding her, and Lahey says “Stiles,” and the sheriff yells “STILES,” and Stiles 

shoots.

 

 

 **BEFORE**  
The Lahey kid (Isaac, the sheriff very deliberately calls him _Isaac_ , keeps his shoulders open and his voice casual and his hands where the kid can see them,) is around all the time now. The sheriff has started taking off his badge before he comes in the house; if he doesn’t, and if the kid and Stiles are downstairs (and they almost always are, he has yet to walk in on them and given his son’s distractibility that borders on uncanny,) the kid can’t take his eyes off the thing until he puts it away. He’s always standing when the sheriff comes into a room--the sheriff is pretty sure, actually, that he’s fled through the window a few times. Sometimes he sticks his head in the door and sees Stiles with his fingers on the kid’s wrist, hears him saying “you’re fine, you don’t have to sit down, just stick around, okay?”

“So is your boyfriend ever going to stay for dinner?” he asks one night, when Isaac has slipped out the (probably) door and grabbed his bike from the back of Stiles’ jeep and gone. 

Stiles’ hand jolts over the ravioli. “Boyfriend? I don’t have a boyfriend. Do you know something I don’t know, anything you want to share with the class?”

“I wasn’t born yesterday,” he says, and Stiles twitches and swallows and says “he isn’t my boyfriend. We’re just...”

“You aren’t friends,” the sheriff says, and Stiles sighs and says “yeah, that’s not quite the word for it.”

“You wanna tell me what that word might be?” the sheriff asks.

“How do you like the pasta?” Stiles says. “It’s carbs _and_ cheese, I thought it might work for you.”

“Stiles...”

“Dad.”

“Just...don’t do anything stupid,” the sheriff says, and Stiles laughs and shakes his head.

“Believe me, dad, I’m being very, very smart.”

 

 

 **SOON**  
There’s a dead body.

Right now, it’s sitting in a freezer at the vet’s office. Tonight, Stiles says, Isaac’s going to bury it, as per usual. (There’s a _usual._ ) It’s so handy, that he’s kept his old job.

There is a dead body, and this is normal, this is _usual_ , they have a _system_ for this, they’ve been killing people and hiding bodies and it’s been _working_ , he never even would have...

(It was Stiles’ system. Of course it was.)

There’s a dead body, and the sheriff knows where it is, and he could start hauling people in, he could do his job, he could arrest his son--

and he’s not going to.

He could.

He should.

But he’s not going to.

 

 

 **BEFORE**  
“Isaac isn’t a _bad_ kid,” Melissa says, carefully. 

 

 

 **NOW**  
“Dad, don’t freak out,” Stiles says, and he’s still holding the gun.

 

 

 **BEFORE**  
It is four in the morning and there is someone downstairs in his kitchen. The sheriff would vastly prefer that his son’s birthday doesn’t start with a home invasion. They would definitely need to talk, after that.

He goes down the stairs, carefully, and puts his gun away when he sees the kitchen island covered in mixing bowls, eggshells, and flour. These are not the classic signs of an armed robbery.

“Isaac?” he calls--softly, he doesn’t want to wake Stiles, though maybe that would be preferable. There’s no response, but the door to the living room is ajar, and he pitches his voice towards that. “You aren’t in trouble,” he says, because he’s heard Stiles say so a dozen times, in half-whispered snatches of conversation in another room or dropped casually, automatically into a monologue. “It’s a good idea. I always just grab something from Safeway on my way home; he’ll like this.”

No response.

“You know what?” he says to the empty room. “I think I’ll help make the frosting.”

(Isaac comes creeping back in when the sheriff is halfway done. The sheriff keeps addressing his how-do-I-make-the-damn-thing questions to no one in particular, but Isaac starts answering them. 

Stiles does, in fact, love the cake. The sheriff decides to focus on the fact that his son apparently has someone who bakes him cakes at four in the morning for his birthday, and not on the fact that this person broke into their house, or that Stiles is still pretending he doesn’t have a boyfriend, or that his boyfriend is _this_ kid, or that Stiles was apparently worried that if the two of them were left alone in the same room, someone could get hurt. His son’s not-boyfriend doesn’t know how to be around people, but cares enough to bake him a birthday cake. It’s funny, or a good sign, or close enough to normal, given the people involved. It’s sweet. 

Probably.)

 

 

 **NOW**  
“I can explain,” Stiles says, and the sheriff has crossed the yard and is staring at the blood on his son’s shoes and shirt and thinking, _this sight is too familiar,_ and _was it like this, every time,_ and _you can’t not-know this one._

So much for their deal.

“Don’t explain,” he says, and Stiles says “ _Dad_ ,” and he says “tell me the truth this time.”

 

 

 

 **BEFORE**  
Stiles and Isaac are in the kitchen, cooking, and Scott’s never around anymore. 

“That thing is going to get fur in the food, get it out of here,” Stiles says, trying to shake the most determined cat the sheriff has ever seen off his leg.

“Cats have hair, not fur,” Isaac says, “and Cthulhu doesn’t shed, it’s undignified.”

“He’s trying to draw blood,” Stiles says, “and he isn’t you, so I want him gone.”

They probably don’t realize he’s in the dining room, and there is probably an alternate explanation for Stiles’ comment that is perfectly harmless. Some video game thing.

“If he’s bothering you so much, you deal with him,” Isaac says.

“He doesn’t listen to me, he only listens to you,” Stiles groans.

“He’s the best,” Isaac agrees, happily.

Stiles comes into the dining room, reaches down and peels the kitten off his leg, and plops it on the sheriff’s papers. “Cuff him,” he says. “He probably deserves it.”

“Why do we have a cat in our house again?” the sheriff asks, and something falls to the floor in the kitchen.

“Keep cooking, that stir fry has taken way too long for us to bail on it now,” Stiles calls over his shoulder, and then he turns back to his dad and says “because it’s Isaac’s, and because it’s _clearly_ a baby and not a demon, and you aren’t supposed to leave those on their own.”

“Which?” he asks, “The baby, or the demon?”

“Both,” Stiles says, and something by his jaw twitches, “and also the one in the kitchen, so, pet the cat and let it chew on you, please.”

 

 

 **NOW**  
Stiles tells the truth.

 

 

 

**BEFORE**  
Chris Argent passes over the last case of bullets. “Red boxes for your officers, the box on top is for you, same as last year,” he says.

“Why do I get the box with the flowers on it again?” the sheriff asks. 

“Different manufacturer,” Chris says. “The materials in yours are a little higher quality, for the same price. You’re the sheriff; consider it a perk.”

“I will still shoot you if I have to,” he warns.

“We appreciate those who serve and protect,” Chris says. “It’s standard practice, I’m sad to hear your last seller was so uncivilized.”

Chris laughs, and so does the sheriff. They’re finishing the paperwork when Chris says “so, Allison tells me your son is going out with the Lahey kid.”

The sheriff says “I’ve noticed” instead of _now if only I could get_ my _son to tell_ me.

“Yeah I bet,” Argent says. “It sounds like he’s over at your house a lot,” he continues, and there’s something off in his tone.

“Practically lives there,” the sheriff agrees. “He’s a good kid.” It comes out a little too aggressive to be believable. He’s seen the way the kid walks. Isaac might be unfailingly polite to him, but he’s pretty sure the freshmen would tell a different tale.

“Oh I’m sure he is,” Argent says. “Or, well, I’m sure he’s as good as he _can_ be, given...everything.”

“Family histories aren’t fate,” the sheriff says, and he opens his his door.

Argent laughs. “Not what I was saying...but not actually wrong. But it sounds like you’ve already had this conversation.”

“Who my son dates is none of your business,” the sheriff says, gesturing Argent through the door.

“No,” Argent agrees, shouldering his bag. “But one concerned parent to another: it might need to be yours.”

 

 

 

 **NOW**  
"It’s werewolves, Dad,” Stiles says. “It isn’t drugs, it isn’t a gang, it isn’t anything you’d see on 20/20, it’s just...werewolves.”

“Just werewolves,” the sheriff repeats. 

“You saw Isaac, dad,” Stiles says. “You saw how he ran away.”

“You and your werewolf boyfriend have been killing people,” the sheriff says, and the blood smells so strong.

“Well we don’t make a habit of it,” Stiles says. 

 

 

 

 **BEFORE**  
The sheriff never knows anymore, how Stiles spends his days. He knows there is school, and lacrosse, and that he and Isaac spend a lot of time at the house, doing homework and cooking and playing video games and researching folklore and wikipedia bunny trails. It’s good, that his son has someone who shares the bizarre things that can hook his attention. He doesn’t know what else they do, when he isn’t home, or when he is but Stiles doesn’t get back until late.

He knows that sometimes Stiles comes back bruised and dirty. That sometimes Stiles leaves in the middle of the night. That sometimes he spends the night at Scott’s, even though Scott is never over anymore. 

He knows that Stiles knows exactly how much Jack is in the bottle.

There are things children and parents don’t need to know about each other.

 

 

 

 **NOW**  
“Are you one?” the sheriff asks. He can’t decide if he believes it, or not. He isn’t sure he wants to; he isn’t sure he _doesn’t._ He doesn’t know how he wants Stiles to answer.

“No,” Stiles says. “No, I’m just human.”

He isn’t sure if he’s relieved or if his son being a werewolf would make things easier.

“Just a human,” Stiles says. “I don’t turn into anything.”

“I thought I told you to tell me the truth,” the sheriff says.

 

 

 **BEFORE**  
He could not be less interested in explaining this to Chris, but: 

his son has never been more calm, more constant, more _focused_ than he is around his not-boyfriend. And he’s seen the way the kid walks, all rolling gait and loose limbs and fluid danger, but he’s also seen his son’s flashes of steel condense into a core.

And he knows who needs watching.

 

 

 

 **NOW**  
“I want to see Isaac,” the sheriff says. “I want to see him, again, in good light, when he’s holding still. I need to see it again.”

“Yeah that’s gonna be a problem,” Stiles says. “But never fear, Scott should be here any minute now.”

 _“Scott?”_ the sheriff repeats, and he thinks he might be sick.

“Ten bucks says Derek beats him to it,” Stiles says.

 

 

 

 **SOON**  
In the coming weeks, Isaac will turn into a werewolf at a raised voice, an arm that moves too fast, conversations that get too tense too slowly, or, half the time, for reasons the sheriff can’t work out. Stiles will make an amulet out of rowan and wolfsbane and all the _you can’t touch him_ he possesses, and he’ll insist his dad wear it, always, slipped inside his shirt and over his heart. Stiles will talk Isaac down every time armed only with his heartrate and conviction, and it will become, very fast, just another thing that happens.

Isaac will turn into a werewolf over and over again, and it will help more than anything else.

His son has killed people. His son isn’t afraid of anything. His son’s boyfriend turns into a werewolf. His son’s a stranger, and werewolves are real. 

His world ended once before. It tilts, now, and spins on.

 

 

 **NEXT**  
The doorbell rings, and Stiles says “that must be Boyd, he’s the only one who would bother.”

“It’s the McCalls,” Isaac says, quietly, and the sheriff thinks _oh right, he can do that._

“That’s going to come in handy, you being able to do that,” he says, and Isaac stares at him.

“Someone should get the door,” Stiles says, and when the sheriff gets up he turns to Isaac and adds “of course actual humans coming to the meeting throw my system off, not everyone gets those super-keen wolfy senses.”

“If Mrs. McCall--”

“Melissa, she wants you to call her Melissa, she told me to keep reminding you of this.”

“--Mrs. McCall is coming over, then that means everyone is.”

“Knew there was a reason we got on so well, you’re pretty bright for a--”

The sheriff opens the door, and Melissa gives him a tight smile and nudges Scott towards the door. “Playdates sure do change as they grow up,” she says. 

“Is that what this is,” the sheriff says, remembering two mornings ago, diner coffee and a park bench and Melissa still in her scrubs, saying _oh thank god you found out, I was going crazy by myself._

“Laugh so you don’t cry,” she says. “Let’s get inside, the others aren’t the only ones who can come here.”

 

 

 

 **THE MORNING AFTER**  
“Not exactly how I maybe wanted to find out,” he says. 

“You can see why no one could tell you though,” she says.

“My son is seventeen, no one should be taking orders from him.”

“He’s killed eight people, if you’re counting werewolves, which he does. Nine, now, I heard, and one of them twice.”

“And you never thought, hey, that might be something his dad needs to know?”

“I’m sorry, I’m curious--when, exactly, would have been the best time to tell you your son’s a murderer?”

“Scott turns into a wolf.”

“Two sides of the same coin.”

“You could have...”

“You would have section 13’d me and you know it.”

She isn’t wrong, and they’re quiet with that knowledge, for a moment.

“The night, at the station, when I saw. That was the worst night of my life.”

“I didn’t think anything would ever top...”

“Turns out the world is full of surprises.”

They drain their coffees.

“What do we do now?”

“The same thing we’ve always done, I think.”

“Oh?”

“Well someone’s got to supervise this thing.”

 

 

 **NEXT**  
Stiles has briefed him on everyone to expect, and they all pile in. Jackson and Lydia with their arms around Danny (he knows, now, what Stiles had been trying to distract him from the first time he came out). Erica and Boyd, holding hands, and Erica’s eyes bright and furious. Dr. Deaton and the school guidance counselor, in leather jackets that make Derek’s (and Erica’s, and Boyd’s, and Isaac’s, and he feels so _stupid,_ sometimes,) look shabby. The Argents, Chris not even hiding his guns and Allison balancing a crossbow on her knees. Derek is the only one to come in by himself, and that only because he hangs behind his, what did Stiles say they were called, his betas. 

Their living room has never felt this small before.

There’s pizza on the coffee table, and Isaac and Stiles are still on the couch. Stiles has saved him a seat there; he goes to sit down next to Stiles, and on Stiles’ other side Isaac twists back and then towards him and then away again.

“Okay,” Stiles says, “I am perfectly fucking fine and you don’t have to do that, _ever,_ remember, but let’s have...dad, can you switch with Derek? It’s your chair anyway, you can kick him out, he isn’t your alpha.”

He’ll ask later. He _will_ ask, though. It’s been working well.

Although, given what this meeting is about, that might depend heavily on how he defines _well_.

He thinks he defines it as having his son back.

 

 

 **FINALLY**  
He’d never, actually, asked Stiles _who are you,_ before. Not when Stiles came back through his window every third night bruised and covered in mud and jittery and insisting practice had run late, not when he’d realized that maybe the less he knew the better, not when the words coming out of his son’s mouth were more lies than true (he isn’t my boyfriend, I’m fine, of course I was at school today it was great, those probably aren’t bullet holes in the Jeep, Dad everything is _fine,_ can we not, not in front of Isaac.) There was something too harsh about it, something too final. 

He doesn’t ask it now, either, even when Chris Argent defers to his son, even when his son is saying, calmly, _so everyone is in agreement this time that we need to kill them all?_ and _as long as we’re doing the war of the witches, there will be a werewolf in this house,_ and _this is not a discussion._ He doesn’t ask it when his son prods two different traumatized werewolfs into eating their pizza, or when, after, Dr. Deaton starts handing Stiles amulets and vials and telling him to _spark_ them, or when Stiles emails him later that night saying _we can’t talk about Isaac in the house, he can hear us, but it’s probably best if you sit across from us for a while at dinner, not next to me and DEFINITELY not next to him._

He doesn’t ask, because he doesn’t have to. 

This is who Stiles is.

It’s maybe even who he was always going to grow up to be.


End file.
